None But The King
by Ulquiarra
Summary: Inspired by Nakimochiku. Ichigo storms into his inner world, ready to defeat his hollow once and for all, only to see the tragic sight of his broken doll-like hollow. He can fix him or leave. Could be IchiHichi, could be friends. T for brief language.


I came in to fight you in my inner world, Zangetsu blazing in my hand, at the wrong time.

It was the first time that I saw all the jagged cracks running through your skin, saw all your broken pieces and fragments that you were trying so hard to fit together.

I saw you grasp two flaps of skin on your arm, pinch them together, and try sewing them, but every time you made a new stitch, another one fell out a few inches back. Your hands were shaking so hard as you finally threw the needle to the ground.

You ran your wobbly hands through your white hair, and for a second, I thought you were going to cry. Then you took a deep, shuddering breath that I could hear echoing hollowly in your chest, bouncing around in a cavity which I realized then was full of cracked and dislocated ribs, as you reached for, what I grasped with horror, was your dismembered foot. It didn't look like a normal torn-off foot; it had one of those ball joints that you found on some dolls you could pose, and I saw as you tried to fit back into its socket. But every time it slipped out of the joint again, acting like similar-poled magnets, another piece of you fell apart, your fingers dropping off one by one.

I wanted to scream at you to stop, please stop, you can't do this yourself, and you're making it worse. I wanted to find who was breaking you like this, and run Zangetsu through them over and over until they left you alone, and then Zangetsu himself appeared next to you, and from the way he looked at me, I knew he knew I was there.

"Shiro," he called you softly, and I thought dumbly, 'You never told me you had a name'. Zangetsu went right on talking.

"Why don't you ask Ichigo for his help? You know he's the only one who can fix you."

You laughed. It was broken. You stuck out your blue tongue and bit it, and I realized you really were trying not to cry.

"I have. I ask him every day. _Not the King's horse and not the King's men, none but the King can put Shiro together again._ He doesn't understand. I can't just scream at him, 'Hello, King, I'm falling to pieces and tearing myself apart, will ya come pick me up again?' It doesn't work like that. My tongue won't let me. I have to get him to help me while speaking in riddles and still making him happy. When he speaks to me, his thoughts boil and hiss, 'You're an animal that needs to be put down, a beast without a heart, a hollow that's insane and will only ever bring death, destruction, and madness.' And I, ha, _I_ am whatever my King asks of me, so I do as he says. At night when I whisper of the ways he imagines me killing his little sisters, I beg 'Come visit me, King. Ya would be in for a great surprise.' And he growls, 'Get away and leave me alone, you fucking hollow!' I plead, 'Just for a bit. See what it's like for me.' He tells me he won't be controlled, and he puts his foot down, so I leave."

The look Zangetsu gave me coupled with the miserable look on your face as you pick up your fingers with the two thumbs, one pointer finger and one middle finger you have left attached sent such guilt through me that I thought, 'I would really like to die right here and now.' Instead, I left my Zangetsu where it was as the human form of Zangetsu receded to who-knows-where, and helped you pick up your fingers.

Immediately, you put on a smirk and said, "Sorry, King, but I'm afraid that I'm not in the mood for a fight right now."

I wondered if your eyes had always looked that empty when you wore that psychotic grin.

I took your hand, ignoring you, careful to avoid the rips that marred your ghostly skin, and gently fit one of your fingers back in the socket. It slid in smoothly, without a single trace of the resistance that it had shown you earlier.

You stopped breathing.

I gave you a concerned look and laid you down on the sideways blue skyscraper that we were sitting on, focusing on your ribs, and popping them back into place, feeling the spiderweb-like cracks that decorated said-bones vanish under my hands.

You started breathing again, black and gold eyes still incredulously fixed on me. You looked like you were afraid that if you blinked, this would all disappear, and you'd be back by yourself again, trying once more at a task that was apparently impossible for you.

I grabbed your hand again and fit the rest of the fingers back in their joints, watching as you flexed them slowly, disbelievingly. I wondered shamefacedly when the last time you had all of your fingers attached was. Determination renewed, I reached for your discarded foot and slipped it into its slot, waiting to see if anything else would break the way it did for you.

You stayed in one piece.

I had a feeling you were as shocked as I was.

Now that you were whole again, I concentrated on the gashes and splits that disfigured your skin. I lightly traced one finger across one that stretched up your forearm, the two edges of the cut curling and peeling away from each other gruesomely, wondering hopefully if it would heal the way your broken ribs did. It didn't. I took your hand, holding it reassuringly, and with my free hand, reached for the needle you'd tossed aside carelessly, and watched as the withered black thread that had extended pathetically from the eye of the needle grew and glowed, turning a brilliant shade of gold.

"Maybe it's doused in painkillers," I muttered to you, glad that my father worked at a clinic. I wouldn't utterly screw up your arm, at least. Your lips twitched a bit, and while it wasn't as big as your usual smile, I liked to think it was more sincere. You didn't even flinch as the needle moved in and out of your skin, and I speculated how many times you'd tried to patch yourself up for you to be this calm about it. The thought made me want to shiver, so I stopped thinking about it. I didn't want to make this anymore painful for you than it had to be.

In the end, there was that one cut on your right forearm, three on your chest, two on your right thigh, one on your left calf, one on your left wrist, one on your left bicep, and one hidden on your scalp beneath your snow white hair. I sewed them all and thought that the golden thread contrasted nicely with your bleached coloring. You saw me admiring it and grinned again, fluttering your eyelashes and claiming, "It matches my eyes, doesn't it, King?"

I looked into your saffron eyes with the black scleras and laughed, nodding. Your smile turned victorious, and I realized that it was the first time I'd ever smiled at you. You read my thoughts and murmured, "Your smiles are nice, King. I never understood why ya would so willingly give them to your friends, but me, ya know, you're other half, the source of your power, the reason why those friends ya smiled at were even still alive, I only ever got scowls and glares."

'Because I was a biased, hypocritical idiot who couldn't see past his own nose.'

That's what I wanted to say. I was too proud. You gave me a look, though, so I'd like to think you heard it anyway.

I stood slowly, admiring my handiwork, before I gave you a hard look. Part of you shrunk back, even as another part of you stepped forward and sneered at me defiantly.

"Shiro," I said, tasting the strange way your apparent name sat on my tongue as I said it for the first time. "If I were to come back, would you want me here?"

Would you want your foolish King, whom abandoned you in your time of need?

Your smirk turned to a smile. "Of course, King. Are ya talking once a week, or every night, or...?"

I frowned, thinking it through. "I'll visit you here every night. I have to make sure you're healing right, you know."

"Of course, Dr. Kurosaki."

I glared at your teasing. You smiled winningly. I smiled a bit too, and finished, "And I suppose I wouldn't totally ignore your commentary if you were to talk to me at some points during the day, either. I would, of course, expect you to return the favor."

You placed a hand over your heart as you replied with mock-seriousness, "Ignore my King? Good God, no! What kinda loyal subject would that make me?"

I flopped next to you, bumping you playfully with my shoulder. "Not a very loyal one. So what will you do in here all day now?"

You grinned brilliantly. I noticed it still had a manic edge to it. It was kind of- endearing. You were a total psycho, but you were quite evidently _my_ total psycho.

"Why, King, I'll bug you all day."

And there went the gushy feelings.

**A.N.** This story was inspired by the beautiful, glorious, goddess of Ichigo and Shiro stories Nakimochiku. Seriously, her stories are amazing, and this one wouldn't have been birthed were it not for her one shot 'A Crooked Mile'. Wondrous story, it really is, if not a bit sad. So, anyway, go read her stories, and thank her for not only writing hers, but allowing me to post mine. Thank you, Nakimochiku!


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